


texas reznikoff

by orphan_account



Series: Spirals and Eyes [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (its michael), Asexual Character, Character Study, Companion Piece, Cuddling, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gerry-Typical Emotional Issues, M/M, Michael-Typical Body Horror, Minor Violence, Monsters in love, Texas Shenanigans, theyre back! your favorite duo of court jesters! now starring: domestic life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The zookeeper is explaining to a disappointed pack of elementary schoolers why the lion exhibit is closed today (though honestly, they're not missing much, the big cats are rarely out and about in the daytime anyway) when they see twooddfigures across the exhibit.“Gerry, what isthatmajestic creature?”“That’s… a giraffe. Do you not know what a giraffe is?”A series of interstitial vignettes set duringEcho Chamber, starring America's most unlikely couple (and a couple cultists).
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael
Series: Spirals and Eyes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548682
Comments: 26
Kudos: 546





	texas reznikoff

**Author's Note:**

> i make a continuity where gerry and michael are globetrotting together in search of demonic artifacts and you think im NOT gonna write another fic about it???????????? guess again
> 
> content warnings: body horror (on account of michael like, existing), a brief but detailed description of dissociation, arson, a mention of worms, cult mention
> 
> yknow. the usual staples of fluffy romance content.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Bored, the girl in pigtails taps her feet together as she watches her pink dress spin round and round behind the washing machine glass. The machine is old, fingerprint-dusty, rattling to an irregular pattern brought about by years of continuous use. Her mother is somewhere around the front counter, haggling with the cashier over mango prices or other things the little girl couldn't be bothered with.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

She plays with the doll she'd brought along apathetically. It's a princess with an awkward bell-shaped purple mass for a dress, felt-fuzzy textured skin, yarn hair peeling from cheap glue. The limbs are blocky and unwieldy and she can't sit up straight when the girl tries to get her to. After a while, the girl drops the toy in disinterest and yawns as she wriggles out of her ill-fitting chair, ignoring her mother's earlier firm order to stay put as wanderlust and boredom call her.

She walks down a long hallway of humming, whirring machines, chewing absently at her thumb. There's only a few dozen of them in reality, but to the girl only coming up to a third of their height, it feels like hundreds. The way they line the walls in twos reminds her of space stations. Cold, uniform, metal soldiers at their stations. The air smells faintly of detergent.

The girl stands on her tiptoes to purvey what's above them, and doesn't notice the figure standing at the end until it makes a sound. She turns to look with a wary step backwards.

It's tall. It looks like a man, at least. Unlike the ones the little girl's seen from peering at strangers from behind her mother's leg, it's very unkempt. The men her mother sees at restaurants are clean-shaved, sharp, wearing their best suits and shiny smiles. This one is stained in dirt and wears a tatty brown overcoat, dark boots and thick maroon gloves are streaked with mud.

He must be a gardener, the girl thinks. That must be why he's carrying a shovel.

A single, gloved finger beckons. The girl worries her lip, suddenly wanting her doll back, and takes a few steps away. She knows not to talk to strangers, had that drilled into her head enough that time she'd taken two steps off the beaten path to examine a creek in the woods. Nervously, she scratches at the fabric of her skirt. She doesn't want her mother angry at her again. The girl wonders if her mother will ever be back from the counter.

The man keeps beckoning. Looms forward as the already-cramped walls of the laundromat seem to shift ever closer. She opens her mouth to scream.

Then something... strange happens.

Suddenly, a doorknob twists open. The doorknob on a door that hadn't been there before, on the wall that usually has nothing but bricks and chipped paint. The man is just as surprised as she is as two long arms unfold from the darkness, grab him by the shoulders, and almost silently yank him in. It leaves nothing but a few scuffed boot marks and dirt on the floor.

The girl peers into the door from her vantage point. She can't see the man, but she can see the shape of a round face, curly blonde hair. Odd eyes, she thinks, but not bad ones.

It gives her a friendly wave, she giggles and waves back, and it lifts a finger to its lips before the door, on its own, slides shut.

* * *

Michael's in a good mood as he makes his way to his house -- his and _Gerry's_ house, as of a week ago.

Texas feels like a fever dream. They've rented out a house out in a nice secluded field that’s filled with billowing yellow grass, abandoned rabbit burrows, and wildflowers that make Gerry sneeze. Far enough away from where most civilians try to venture but mysterious enough that some are bound to try. Gerry can have his privacy, and Michael gets easy pickings for meals. There's a patio, an off-white picket fence colored by the sun and many years of wear and tear, a fireplace where Gerry can burn things easily. It overlooks a muddy lake that has a layer of green scum floating on the surface. All in all, it's pretty perfect.

Michael bypasses the door and lets himself in through the kitchen wall. He can hear Gerry from the living room and immediately makes a beeline for him, whistling to make his presence known.

Gerry is sitting on the floral-patterned old couch they'd dragged up from the basement, thumbing through a newspaper. Occasionally he circles bits of the obituary section in red marker. His posture is absolutely terrible; his face is just an inch away from the pages. Michael stares at him from the hallway for a while, grinning fondly.

Eventually Gerry glances up. His lips twitch into a small smile, and he pats the space next to him as an invitation. Michael is there in an instant.

“Hey.” He pecks Michael on the cheek. “Where've you been all morning?”

“Feeding,” Michael smiles. “I tried that thing you told me, y'know, the _not going after innocent victims_? It was delightful. You have the most wonderful ideas sometimes.”

Gerry snorts. “How nice of you to figure out after all this time eating innocent people is bad.”

“Now let's not go _that _far.” Michael knows he's being sarcastic but pretends to be offended with a haughty sniff, turning from Gerry with his nose to the air. “It was one of the Buried for your information. No one you'd want around.”

“No?”

“No. It was going after a child.”

“Gross.” Gerry’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh, yeah, you're right, I don't. Feel free to pick off those fuckers as you please.”

He turns another page of his newspaper, squinting to read the small text. No matter how many times Michael tells him he 100% objectively needs glasses, he never listens.

Michael hums happily and scoots farther along the couch to press himself to Gerry's side like the world's tallest, blondest, most unsettling cat. Gerry grunts noncommittally, but he doesn't shrug Michael off; instead a tattooed arm comes to wrap around Michael's frame and rests on his shoulder. He doesn't squeeze Michael close but it keeps him there, a silent reminder that his presence is welcome.

It's addicting, it really is. Gerry's not very touchy-feely most of the time— certainly not to the extent Michael is— but he never objects to Michael's clinginess, save for the occasional annoyed look or sigh if he's being more obnoxious than usual. If it crossed any boundary, if Gerry ever outright told him to stop, Michael would be more than willing to do so.

But he never does. He allows himself to be gently manhandled into oblivion, like a particularly grumpy ragdoll.

Michael takes full advantage of this. He snakes his arms around Gerry whenever he can, laces their ankles together when they sleep. Utterly ignores any sense of personal space as they sit together, puts his chin on the top of Gerry's head despite Gerry’s complaints. (“It makes me feel like a goddamn munchkin. Then again that's nothing new, isn't it, you tall bastard.”) He gets a thrill out of prodding the boundaries a little, seeing how much Gerry will stand, how much more outrageously blatant affection Michael can shower onto him. It's a new and exciting game that Michael is gleeful to know he's allowed to play.

The prospect of anyone _wanting_ to touch Michael willingly used to be a foreign concept for such a long time, as long as Michael can remember and even before that, and Gerry just _does it_ because Gerry is amazing and delightful and has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever, as well as a stunningly high tolerance for Michael’s antics.

It's all chaste, of course. The Sex Talk has only ever come up once or twice in passive conversation, where both times Michael had established his utter lack of interest in the subject. (“Though you know, I also don't really mind it. It could be fun, if you wanted to,” he'd added with a gleam in his eye.) Gerry hadn't taken him up on the offer, though he'd stumbled over an “uh, maybe later, thank you” with more than a little awkwardness, and that was that. No dissolution of their physical intimacy or sudden cold treatment, Michael isn't immediately dropped from their relationship like a stone. Just life going on, and Michael continuing to find new ways of being as close to Gerry as possible.

And Gerry reciprocates in his own ways. He leans against Michael late at night when they watch telly, absentmindedly plays with Michael's hand and runs his fingers over the knuckles like he's trying to map them out in his mind. He’s the one who kisses Michael more than not, the one action Michael's still somewhat shy about. Kissing’s the Big™ Thing, hyped up in all manner of romantic media, the milestone you mark down on your calendar as you make your way to the wedding. But Gerry does it casually, languidly, like it's no big deal at all. He's good at that sort of thing. Making big, looming steps forward seem effortless.

Sometimes Michael honestly wonders why Gerry isn't repulsed by him, as about ninety percent of the population tends to be. He's still an uncanny being, after all, far from being human. It's hard to love a creature like that. But when he asks Gerry late one night, crickets and shadows pooling in the distance outside, Gerry only shrugs in response.

“I like you,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep, “and your body's part of you, so I like it too.”

It makes Michael feel very odd. But also completely elated, so he takes the information and hoards it all the same.

“You’re staring.”

“Oh?” says Michael absently, too busy being transfixed by the curve of Gerry's jaw to pay any mind to conversation. He feels Gerry chuckle against him, the soft shake of his shoulders, and curls his form around him just a little tighter.

They can only be here a little while. These safe houses never last more than a few months at a time before they're found out by something or another— Hunters, or Desolation cultists, or nosy police officers in over their heads— andthey're on the run again. They live on the fast and quick. Michael doesn't mind. For a little while they can live in tangled, domestic bliss, and that's enough for him to be content.

Michael will miss this house, though, he thinks. It's not often that they find such comfortable lodging suited to both of them. But he'll live. The house isn't what _matters_, it's Gerry that makes the difference; wherever Michael is, Gerry will be what keeps the house warm.

It's a simple existence but it's really all they need.

* * *

The jogger’s legs burn as she sprints through the woods. Earbuds dangling from her neck, she stumbles over errant tree roots and loose gravel, nearly tripping but catching herself at the last minute to skitter back to her feet.

There is a distinct sound behind her. Leaves crunching underfoot, the sound of practiced, unhurried movement. The man-shaped thing chasing her down keeps a steady pace at her heels. It lets out gargled snarls and giggles as it skims the cloth of her jacket with clawed fingers. She tears through the underbrush, feeling sweat pour in rivulets down her neck.

Even though she's running as hard as she can, lungs burning from the effort, the jogger gets a sinking feeling that the thing is only toying with her. Its putrid breath is on her neck. Sooner or later it's going to corner her somewhere, or she'll trip, or it'll simply claw at her ankle till she falls and it descends upon her.

She wonders if there'll leave any remains for other people to discover, or if she'll die a mystery, another person vanished without a trace during a jog through the woods.

“Hey,” a raspy, nonchalant voice calls out abruptly. The jogger almost doubles over in shock. Evidently, the thing is as surprised as she is because it stops in its tracks, skidding a little from the momentum.

In the clearing she sees… a man(?) sporting long black hair and a tan face lined with exhaustion, leaning against a tree. A cigarette dangles between his lips as if he's out for a morning smoke. And perhaps most bizarrely, it appears he's dressed up in some kind of goth ensemble— heavy eyeliner, a spiky wrist bracer, and thick combat boots that give the jogger a sudden and unpleasant flashback to her own middle school days. His expression looks unimpressed.

The jogger’s pursuer doesn’t even make a move. Apparently it's just as baffled.

“Rh–” the monster manages to get out before its head explodes from a shotgun blast, the body flailing back wildly as thick black blood spurts from the neck stump. It happens so abruptly the jogger doesn't even have time to flinch.

The man fires another shot into its chest, then the left shoulder, then unloads until what's left of the monster, now so full of holes it resembles Swiss cheese, falls to the ground lifelessly. For good measure, he walks over and starts stomping the twitching torso over and over with all the force he can muster. There's a horrible wet crunching noise as the creature’s ribcage shatters under his boot heel. By the time he's finished, there's nothing left of the thing but a large red smear.

The jogger watches all this happen with wide eyes, somewhat alarmed, but honestly almost too confused and winded to actually feel scared.

Finally, forest goth steps back from the mess with a resigned-sounding sigh, hands on his hips. He doesn't really seem to remember there's another person with him.

She swallows around cotton. Now that the blood’s no longer pounding in her ears, the clearing fills with a heavy, awkward silence. She feels as though she should say something. Thank him? Run off screaming again? Call for help? Ask why he's wearing all that in the middle of the woods? Go home and go buy a lottery ticket or two because she's pretty sure she just came millimeters close to death?

Before she can say something, mystery man gives her a lazy glance and drawls in an accent that sounds distinctly non-American, “Well? Shove off then. Nothing to see here.”

Then he makes a motion with his hand as if shooing off a stray cat, before fishing a lighter out of his pocket and fiddling with his cigarette.

Too bewildered to respond, the trembling jogger takes a few steps back, and does just that.

* * *

Living with Michael has forced Gerry to break unhealthy coping habits that he's been cultivating for years, which he's somewhat resentful about.

Yeah, he's grateful, don't get him wrong, and Michael is obviously very loving and concerned and somewhat overbearing, and Gerry _cares_ very much about that, but. Gerry is not a very healthy human being. He hasn't been since he was a fresh-faced, doddering eight year old. When one defines themselves around the various bad coping methods they've formed over the years, and suddenly finds themself being told, ‘actually, Gerry, don't eat directly out of that jar of mayonnaise because that's disgusting’, well— you'd be miffed too.

Gerry can no longer completely abandon his physical needs out of listlessness. No, he needs to change every day and shower and not lie on the floor in a depressed funk when he's feeling bad. No, he can't have only pints of ice cream for dinner instead of actual food. Well, he _could _do all of these things technically, but the itching sensation at the back of his neck of Michael being _concerned_ for him is way worse. And Gerry hates it when Michael's upset in general, so he kind of has to.

He used to dissociate himself to sleep nightly. Sometimes it still happens, but Michael is a grounding figure even asleep.

Gerry can look over and trace the dizzying but familiar curves of his shape until his body stops being four inches left of where it should be, and he no longer experiences that horrible cold-hot pins and needles feeling in his phantom limbs. He's never told Michael about it, but he seems to understand. Whenever Gerry wakes past midnight in a bleary, nightmare-stricken frenzy, Michael sleepily puts a hand in his hair, and holds him down with a heavy, grounding weight on his chest till the shaking recedes.

It's sweet on paper, but honestly, it makes Gerry feel pathetic. He can't help but hate it when anyone sees him vulnerable, even Michael, who's seen him vulnerable _so _many times. It… scares him. Probably cause he's not used to it. It's not like the household he grew up in particularly sought treatment for his traumas, after all (if it wasn't the direct source).

Apparently the default Gerry reaction to this is misplaced anger and lashing out, irrational reluctance to share more of himself to this man who wants to love him. Which is unfair to Michael, he knows, he _knows_, and he's furious at himself and his stupid broken brain for it. Sometimes he wishes Michael would just be mad at him for it, but Michael never is. He's just so endlessly hungry for Gerry's _presence_. He never stops giving Gerry cheesy wide grins when they meet eyes across the kitchen, or reaching for Gerry's hand during lunch. When Gerry is shaking and sweating and crying at ungodly hours in the morning, Michael kisses his eyelids gently, stroking his tears away with disfigured knuckles, and Gerry doesn't know why he _deals_ with all this bullshit, but he can't question it. Michael hates answering questions.

Unfortunately, Michael loves him, and Gerry's just going to have to take care of himself until he stops.

It's not like Michael doesn't have his own baggage. _Oh_, does he have baggage. But it turns out Gerry may have, out of sheer luck, started dating the one person on planet fucking Earth that dislikes talking about personal stuff even more than he does. Gerry really doesn't know how to handle it, he tries his best to be there for him, but Michael is expert at papering over those cracks. An actor at heart, able to imitate a person who is perfectly fine and well, while in reality being none of these things.

But there _are _cracks. Gerry sees them in moments of weakness, the times when Michael is most _himself _and therefore has less things to hide behind, where small flashes of insecurity flare.

“Should I change?” Michael asks one day, as they're curled up in bed during a lazy afternoon.

Gerry hums quizzically. “It’s only three.”

“I didn't mean that. I meant…” Michael's voice lacks its usual bombastic, lilting cheerfulness, instead soft and a little ragged and unsure, his leg’s bouncing in that way that only happens when he's nervous. “Do you… would you like me to be more human, Gerry?”

Gerry's face wrinkles. “Why?”

“I just,” Michael begins, and stops himself. “I know I'm good at looking human from a distance, but up close, it's a lot more obvious. Not to mention physical contact kind of breaks the whole facade, a little bit. I know I can be… _sharp_. I don't want to hurt you. So… if you'd like a form that's more comfortable to you, then—”

“Don't hurt yourself for my sake, Michael, Jesus.” It comes out sounding harsher than Gerry intended, but it's the truth. He tries to blunt his voice into something softer with the next. “I thought I told you I liked your body.”

“You said you liked me, and by extension, my body...”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I don't want you to have to do so in spite of how monstrous I am.”

“In spite— Michael, if I didn't like the way you felt, I wouldn't be letting you fucking spoon me right now.”

“Oh.”

“You goddamn dingbat,” Gerry says, voice fond. “Monstrous is _cool_. I like monstrous. Monsters that are kissable, especially.”

He hears a faint, disquieting chuckle. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Gerry says, and thinks, _this must be what it's like to give back_.

* * *

It has been a harrowing day at the zoo.

The animals have been struck all at once with a strange illness. There's a growing rainbow of different species in the quarantine zone of the infirmary— cows, goats, pigs, a dozen different birds, one unfortunate mongoose— all languid, sluggish, and black boils and sores dotted all up and down their necks and legs. There's an ongoing debate between the keepers as to whether or not they should close the zoo altogether or just hold out until the day is over, but the medicine bay is filling up rapidly with very ornery, very unappreciative patients.

The zookeeper is explaining to a disappointed pack of elementary schoolers why the lion exhibit is closed today (though honestly, they're not missing much, the big cats are rarely out and about in the daytime anyway) when they see two _odd _figures across the exhibit.

“Gerry, what is _that _majestic creature?”

“That’s… a giraffe. Do you not know what a giraffe is?”

The zookeeper's seen some weirdos in their day. Tourist crowds always come with the drunks, beer-bellied dads in Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses, hoodie punks who sneak in to write rude graffiti on statues and unwisely provoke the animals (they haven't had a successful lawsuit _yet_). But… these two, even on this particularly strange and profoundly stressful day, they're… something else, that's for sure.

To be blunt, they don't look like they've come from the same planet. The shorter one is shrouded in black leather clothing – Chrissakes, it's the middle of summer in _Texas_, what's he _doing_? He looks... spiky, for lack of a better term. A lot of those bracelets are studded. The zookeeper thinks they spot a choker too. Dark tan skin, long black hair (dyed?) pulled into a ponytail, weirdly immaculate makeup. It's the most gothic thirty-year-old the zookeeper's ever seen. Meanwhile the taller one looks like he's stepped straight out of a cathedral, or a demented version of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. Sandy blond hair, almost white in the sun. Wearing a knitted cardigan (what's _wrong _with these people. It's _Texas._) that reads, UNAFFORDABLE LUXURY in painstakingly stitched cursive. He's a good foot taller than the other man, in fact, he's towering over most of the crowd. Their arms are looped together.

“Do you like animals, Gerry?”

“Of course I do,” the goth (Gerry, presumably) scoffs. “Who doesn't like animals?”

Sandman hums. “My father, I think.” It’s weird, the tone of voice sounds like the man barely remembers the fact. As if he's recalling the distant memory of a vacation or something. “I remembered the other day we had a taxidermy room. Mounted deer heads on the wall, and all that.”

“Aw. I'd kill your dad if I met him.”

“I don't care _that _much. You have my blessing.”

Sandman lets out a low, burbling giggle like they've just shared an inside joke, then presses a kiss to the smaller man’s hair. The open show of affection is surprising considering the environment, but, well, they've established a pretty high lack of caring about _that. _One neck-bearded guy gives them a dirty look but other than that everyone goes about their business, including the elementary pack. The zookeeper feels a little twinge of relief, even though the couple's probably not even aware they're watching.

“Did you see those eagles earlier?”

“Hm? Yes. I don't really know why they're such a big deal in this country. I expected them to be bigger, but they were just...” Sandman shrugs. “Bald.”

Goth man snorts. Well, he's not wrong, the zookeeper thinks privately. Bald eagles _are_ bald.

“The sign said they were, uh… that they couldn't fly or something, because a hunter shot them down. Isn't that stupid?” The goth runs a hand through his hair, a frustrated look on his face. “Sometimes I think humans are worse than you guys.”

“Humanity is adjacent to us, it only makes sense. By default you are capable of great amounts of kindness, and cruelty. We find ourselves more inclined on the latter end, but… sometimes, we can be convinced otherwise, can't we," Sandman purrs, leaning over to get in frame of some chattering teenagers taking selfies in front of the marmoset exhibit. The zookeeper watches as their smiles disappear and the jovial talk turns to screeches of horror as they check their camera rolls, and they scatter like a flock of birds.

Goth gives him a nudge to the ribs that doesn't make Sandman's terrifyingly wide smile any smaller. It's then that the zookeeper realizes a) both of them are wearing thick hiking boots whose soles are coated in grimy, tar-black muck and b) the couple is heading towards them. The taller man is smiling in their face before they can even think to panic.

“You're welcome, by the way,” he sing-songs. “Your animals should be fine now that we've driven off that Corrupted gentleman.”

“You should probably check the tiger pit though,” Goth mumbles around a cigarette despite the blatant no-smoking sign, until the taller man reaches over and plucks it out of his mouth. He ignores his indignant cry of _'Michael! God.' _as he twists it under his heel, grinning all the while.

The zookeeper wants to question them, but then there are cries from the east wing over and at the sound of their name, the zookeeper has to drop the matter and start running to the source. In their haste, they brush past "Michael" and -- that's not right. The texture of a human body doesn't _feel_ like that— they push down the wave of weird nausea that comes and let out a discreet sigh of relief when the two have disappeared in the crowd behind them. They beeline immediately toward the tiger pit.

It takes a long time to extricate all the worms. Even longer to convince the slowly-growing crowd _no, please don't touch the insects, sir, do NOT climb into that enclosure, I know there's no tigers but still—_ but that Gerry guy seemed to be telling the truth. All the animals in the medical bay suddenly stop displaying symptoms, the lesions and sores abruptly fade. It's very, very strange, but… it's a _zoo_. They couldn't pay to have a normal day at the zoo.

The keeper gets one more glance at the odd couple and it's a couple minutes before closing. They're standing in front of one of the bird enclosures, the only one that hadn't been evacuated from the sudden epidemic— Michael's arm wrapped around Gerry's shoulder, Gerry's hand on the former's hip.

Michael says something and points to one of the birds, one of the surly umbrella cockatoos, presumably comparing its likeness to Gerry's. Gerry gives an inaudible but clearly annoyed response before gesturing at one of the potoos, and Michael's laughter is loud enough to carry across the entire distance.

* * *

“All I'm _saying_,” Gerry spits as he douses the flower-patterned tartan couch in gasoline, “is maybe next time _tell me_ before you do shit that could get us found out."

"I _did_ tell you," sniffs Michael haughtily, arms crossed over that sweater with all the spirals Gerry'd bought for him a month ago— God, fuck, he can't think it's adorable now, he's supposed to be _annoyed—_ "You just weren't paying attention."

“Paying attention? To _what_? That text you sent me that was just a winking face and nothing else? How do you expect me to connect the dots from that to 'I'm gonna raid a People's Church hideout without you'_?_ God! Would it _kill_ you to be a little more transparent?” He crosses his arms. “_Oh wait_!”

Michael scoffs. “How’s that_ my _fault? You're the one whose main survival tactic appears to be ‘push away everyone and be prickly and irritable when they try to do things for you’. And with no Entities necessary, I might add.”

“I. Am _not._ Irritable,” Gerry snaps. “And I do _not_ push everyone away, fuck off.”

Michael's face, even though Gerry knows he's just as annoyed because a sardonic Michael is not a happy Michael, is so calm it's infuriating. “You’re doing it right now, you know,” he points out mildly.

“I’m _not_. This is _not_ the usual ‘oh no real emotions I'm gonna curl up in a ball because I have emotional trauma’ reaction, okay, I'm being justifiably— goddamn— angry—” he punctuates every word with a shake of the canister “—at you for doing something _stupid_! You could have gotten hurt.” Michael barks out a laugh at that. “I’m serious!”

“_Really_, Gerry? Is that how little you think of my power, that I might be overtaken by the Dark? _Me?_” Michael looms over him threateningly, his shadow looming even taller, curling into dizzying spirals over the wall demonstratively. Gerry stares back defiantly, unflinching.

“Whatever,” he huffs, turning back to the room at hand. His canister's nearly empty when he shakes it. He curses – they've got at least three more rooms to go before the house will reliably go up in flames, and they have a limited supply of flammable substances on short notice.

He turns back to Michael, who's standing casually against a wall, passive-aggressively examining his own too-long nails. “Fuck— will you help me or not? Or are you gonna stand there like a menacing lampshade?”

Michael growls. “_Fine_.” He picks up his own canister and starts dousing. The foul-smelling liquid drips across the hardwood in small, neat circles. “I just don't understand why _you _can be reckless and charge headfirst into danger all the time, but when I toe the line and do something the least bit dangerous, suddenly _I'm_ the idiot.”

“I didn't say you're an idiot—”

“You said I was being stupid!”

“I said you _did something_ stupid, it's different. Smart people do dumb shit all the time—”

“Do you know how much I worry about you? How much you work yourself into the ground pursuing things that can kill you? You have absolutely no self-regard, and most of it is wasted on trying to protect _me_!” The façade of aloof detachment has completely peeled away to reveal the full white-hot force of Michael's fury. It would be terrifying, probably, to anyone other than Gerry. “It’s demeaning! I'm not some damsel for you to save. Do you think I'm powerless?”

“The opposite, actually! I'd love it if you stopped trying to literally _eat_ random passersby—”

“I haven't done that in ages!”

“You _ate_ the _mailwoman_.”

“_She was being nosy_!” Michael exclaims indignantly.

“Mmmmmmph!” comes a muffled cry from the very confused, very scared, bound-and-gagged People’s Church member on the couch.

“Shut up!” Both of them snap at the figure in unison before immediately turning back to each other.

“You— you—” Michael sputters uncharacteristically, scrabbling to find the words to express how _frustrated _he is, “You’re _incorrigible_.”

Gerry lets out a loud, sardonic laugh. “Well, you're driving me _mad!_”

Michael doesn't respond. A dark, sullen silence settles over both of them. Neither speak out of spite, daring the other to break first, almost looking at each other but stubbornly refocusing on giving the living room a thorough douse. The cultist continues to squirm, mildly uncomfortable at witnessing the evidently domestic exchange.

“This is bullshit,” Michael grumbles under his breath. “I _liked _this house.” He lets out an annoyed, echoing sigh. “Why’s my last memory of it going to be arguing with you, stinking of gasoline?”

“We’ll get a new house,” Gerry replies stiffly.

“Yes, but not like this one,” huffs Michael. “This one had a fire pit. It had nice long hallways. A _library.”_ He sighs mournfully. “There were so many _doors_.”

Gerry snorts softly, despite himself. “Is _that_ what you like about it? I liked the rabbits.”

“Rabbits? Yes, I suppose they taste alright,” says Michael absently, and Gerry makes a loud noise of disgust.

“No, I like them because they're _cute_, you—” he sighs through his nose sharply. It's honestly not very hard to get upset at the things Michael does. He's outlandish at best and monstrous at worse.

The problem is, being mad at him doesn't feel good, it doesn't feel cathartic. It makes Gerry feel like there's something chipping away slowly at a cavity in his chest, until everything he holds inside has been exposed and eroded. He doesn't _want _to be mad. He wants to be held, and for Michael’s arms to wrap around him again in that gruesome, inhuman way he's grown so accustomed to, he wants to be reassured that he's— that he's not going to be left alone to fend for himself again.

He knows Michael would never. He _knows._ But he's still scared, and he hates it.

"Do you ever think about that?" Michael asks, out of the blue.

“About what?”

“Settling down.” He gestures. “Somewhere nice, like here.”

"Hm." Honestly, Gerry hasn't really. Surviving to the next day, the next week, has always been the first and most pressing priority in his life. The only time he's really ever considered a future, when the idea of himself surviving past 20 wasn't laughable, was… well, when Michael had entered his life. "Not really. I suppose that was like… a distant, nebulous goal of sorts."

"Is that what you want?" Gerry almost starts bristling again because it sounds like one of _those_ questions— but Michael's tone is plain, devoid of snideness or judgement. It doesn't read as an attack on his character, even with his trigger-happy brain at the ready.

“I suppose, yeah,” he answers slowly.

Michael hums. “Do you think you'll ever stop running long enough to get there?”

Gerry stares at him, raising an eyebrow. Michael stares back, stoic and placid.

“I…” he starts, then doesn't know how to finish. “As long as these things… these things that want to hurt people, as long as they exist… I'm going to try stopping them.” He pauses. “And I guess that means I'll have to keep outrunning them.” Michael's face is unreadable. “So I guess not.”

“Hmm.” Michael's eyes trail away. Gerry wants to ask what he's thinking about, but Michael will let information about himself through as he pleases, never at the behest of anyone else. So he, impatient as he is, waits.

“I remember wanting to live somewhere like this. Long ago.” Before Robinson, Michael doesn't have to say. “Actually, I used to be really obsessed about it. Always pestered boyfriends about what house we could get, which would be best for long-term, for pets…” He chuckles to himself. “Probably why they never stayed long. It's a lot of commitment to ask, and it scares people.

“After the Spiral, I thought… I had found that home, finally. In a metaphorical sense, of course, physically, the Spiral is the opposite of whatever home is. But -- you get it. I had a purpose that kept me rooted in a place, even if that place was no place. I felt that incessant, ever-interfering tug to find a nest finally... cease. And for a while I was happy.”

“But?” Gerry interjects after a while, because there's always a _but_.

“But that changed too.” Michael focuses back on him again. Gerry can feel it, the sensation is comforting. “After I met you. I was no longer content… to wait. To lurk in shadow for some prey to wander into my midst. I wanted to impress you, I wanted… _you_.”

Is he blushing? Wow. _Wow_. Gerry's very quickly forgetting that he's supposed to be upset still.

Michael has, evidently, forgotten as well. He reaches for Gerry's hand, clutching it in his own oversized, distorted ones. “I don't care about the house. Well, I— I do, it really is rather nice, but that's not the _point_. It’s not my home, _you are._” He pauses. Shakes his head with a frustrated noise. “That— that doesn't make sense, but it's true. It's how I feel. I don't _want_ to be mad at you over this _stupid_ fight, I don't even remember how it started anyway. We have so little time in the long run and I don't want to waste it over _this._”

Gerry's jaw is dangling somewhere near the floor and he can't really remember how to close his mouth. In any other situation he'd be blaming Michael, but— nah. Nope. This is definitely still him.

“There,” Michael is panting, like the words were physically exhausting to say. “How's _that_ for transparent?”

Gerry crushes their lips together so hard their teeth click together painfully. Michael makes a surprised noise, but leans eagerly into the touch, mouth twisting into a pleased smile against Gerry’s disconcertingly— Gerry stumbles as Michael leans all his weight onto him, nearly toppling him backwards in his haste to get closer. They kiss wildly, ferociously, with reckless abandon.

“Mmmmph,” mutters the People's Church member, this time with more than a little annoyance. They ignore him.

* * *

“So where are we aiming next?”

Gerry looks up from his map, as the bright flickering light of the burning house shrinks behind them in the rearview mirror. “Uhhh, I dunno. Wyoming, maybe?”

Michael lets out a disgusted noise. “Absolutely not. _Nothing_ happens in Wyoming, do you want to die of boredom?! Because we will.”

“Thought nothing happening would be the point,” Gerry mutters defensively, then flips to another page. “Massachusetts?”

“Gerry. Everyone knows _Massachusetts _doesn't exist.” Michael says that with an unsettlingly straight face, and Gerry doesn't have time to unpack any of that.

“Okay, okay…” This isn't very responsible driving, but better than letting Michael behind the wheel. “God, the States suck. Are you sure we shouldn't be getting out of the country?”

“We covered our tracks well enough. The Lightless Flame is reckless and stupid enough to launch an attack like this out in the open, so—” Michael shrugs. “They probably think we're dead. For now.”

“Wherever we go,” Gerry reaches out and squeezes Michael's hand. He feels a little like he's in a sickeningly sweet Hallmark Christmas movie, but it's worth it to see Michael's face brighten. “I’ll be with you, okay?”

Michael flashes a smile that’s too wide.

“Of course,” he replies, and Gerry smiles back.

“Okay, so.” He turns back to the map. “How's Florida sound?”

“Ooh, dangerous! That state will kill us before the Entities do.” Michael starts happily going on a rambling tangent about alligators, and Gerry can only think, _this is home_.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from mitski's [texas reznikoff](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zTtGSH0adio) which is admittedly the entire reason why this fic takes place in texas
> 
> as always, my tma/writing tumblr is [@prentissed](https://prentissed.tumblr.com/) if you wanna yell at me abt gerrymichael


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